


If Music Be the Food of Love

by matan4il



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Honeymoon, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matan4il/pseuds/matan4il
Summary: You kiss Aaron. Meaning, you devour him with your kiss. That is, he devoured your soul from the moment he imprinted his light onto it. You're still not sure how this happened. How he agreed to become your husband, how he took you for his.I wanted to write a reunion 2.0 sex fic, but I didn't get to because I had my Big Bang fic to write. Then wedding 2.0 happened and made me wanna write some sex fic for their honeymoon as well. So, this is a little bit of both. Hopefully you’ll enjoy the fluffy porn with absolutely no plot…





	If Music Be the Food of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Major love and thanks to Jo and Hannah who have read this fic through and helped improve it and for the entire cheer leading squad on Tumblr for the support and encouragement. This fic wouldn't be here without any of you! Any remaining mistakes are mine alone. All feedback and conductive criticism is greatly appreciated. Thank you and enjoy!
> 
>   
> ~ * ~
> 
> _If music be the food of love, play on. - William Shakespeare_

You kiss Aaron. Meaning, you devour him with your kiss. That is, he devoured your soul from the moment he imprinted his light onto it. You're still not sure how this happened. How he agreed to become your husband, how he took you for his. 

But he has and in the shadows of the room, the stars casting soft silver circles over the bed like a half smile, you hungrily reach to undo his tie and pull it off, like a ribbon undone. You've waited the whole day to unveil him as one more proof you've been collecting along it that this is all real. The suit Aaron has on accentuates, as ever, the strength of his body. A build you know full well, and it's even better than the cloth lets on, but you've always been tickled by how generously suits hint at his physique. His muscular arms, his sculpted torso, the solidness of his powerful legs. You want to feel his weight pushing you down. Promising this is not a dream and will not vanish with the first ray of morning that will filter in, as so many nocturnal moments dissolved in the past into stabbing memories of a break up, into loneliness and tears that were shed of their own accord. It's behind you now. He's your future and you invite him to work his magic on you, erase your pain and fill up every inch of existence, by touching him.

It's a concert of touches, really, the way the two of you are with each other. Always has been. The way you meld together. Every touch is new and singular and at the same time, forever repeated each time you embrace or make love, eternal. Like how you're touching Aaron's face. How you had done it in his room above the pub, when you had broken your own rules to never sleep with any man more than once. Or how you ran your fingers along the border of his scruff in the garage, on your first wedding night, when even knowing the whole village was waiting for the grooms in the pub could not move you two away from claiming each other. At the lay by, the way you anchored your grasp around his jaw, newly engaged again. You were pulling him over and into you in defiance of any common decency, hungry for his mouth as if you two hadn't kissed so many times before or didn't just promise to continue to do so for as long as you both shall live. And right now, when there is no rush to get to any goal, your palm and fingers tingling with the softness of his cheek in the hotel room that you're probably not going to leave for the entirety of the week stretching ahead of you. A honeymoon that the pair of you earned with blood, sweat, tears and the ever expansion of your love. New, singular, repeated, eternal, a symphony of touches that has no beginning and no end.

Your hand rests on his cheek and you can feel him smiling into it. Your heart expands to the rhythm of his joy. You'll never be able to wrap your mind around that thought, how you could be the cause for it. That's all you've ever wanted, to be able to give that to him. Your gift that you wanted to grant him whether you were together or not. Looking at him throughout your special day together, seeing him radiating with love and thrill, nerves and pride, breathlessness and ecstasy, it feels more than ever like his happiness is, in fact, the greatest present that you have ever received. You kiss his lips gently, reverently, before looking into his eyes. He knows.

It's another in an orchestra of precious moments, as this is exactly how the two of you stood, gazing at each other, caught between the night and the electrically lit doorway, barely audible music pouring out of Vic's house, when you fought for and chose each other once again, permission granted once more to kiss and touch. To hold and not ever let go. Returning to each other after so long could have been awkward, it should have been, unfamiliar and distant for all the months you had spent apart. But it was home and real, making any separation you had to endure, no matter how long, melt away as if it never was. He's taking your jacket off. He always did have the power to strip you of everything and leave you bare, more yourself than you ever was or would be without him.

He took your belt off and pushed you up against the glassdoor of the Mill, that night. When you entered the house for the first time unafraid that you would lose it again. He unzipped you and himself, aligned your freed cocks together with his hand, steady where you were a trembling mess, and tugged. It was rough, inelegant and more than enough. You were lost from his presence alone, your mouth dropped open, him only half kissing it as he was himself abandoned to the feel of your erections, your most sensitive flesh, pressed together again. All the while, you were whimpering with desperation and disbelief as you exploded in the palm of his hand, your fingers clawing into his shoulders with as much force as you could muster to keep yourself from crumbling down over the suddenness and intensity of your orgasm. He always did have you in the palm of his hand. That had already been true when he had pushed your head onto his dick in the backseat of a random client's car in the garage and you had gone down willingly, allowing him to take your mouth and a piece of your soul. He did when he told you in the same garage that he wanted you still, said how much he loved you, giving you hope and crashing all of your fears on top of you at once for what this might mean and how much you must fight it, for both your sake. When despite all that, you still went home with him, for no major reason other than he wanted you to. He always had your life fluttering in the palm of his hand. Because you gave it to him.

You're giving him access to wrap his arms around you as you return the gesture. When his tongue is slipping into your mouth, because no one's ever opened you up like he does, on every level, you reach behind to untuck his shirt. Last night it was his hoodie that you were clumsily trying to release him from, feeling like a teenager, having fumbled with the pub spare key that he keeps at the Mill to unlock the back door, then having rushed up the stairs. "Upstairs now," was ringing in your ears, your voice had been demanding, covering up and revealing your despair all at once. You had waited for him to follow you up to his room back then, you were making your way up to be with him on the eve of your wedding day, you are always looking to close any gaps between you because being apart has never felt right. You start unbuttoning his shirt, changing the angle of your head as you do to let him further explore your mouth.

You're his. You're not sure when that happened exactly, but by the time he had taken you into his body for the first time, it had already become fact. You had fit in perfectly. Your cock sinking into his heat in much the same way you had been drowning in the sight of pleasure playing out on his face, his lips parting as his head had rolled back from the sensations you had been causing him. You never did stand a chance. And you had fought for one for so long, denying your feelings for him. But when the truth of your affair was eventually revealed and there seemed to be no hope for either one of your relationships, it wasn't nights in the big house of wealth, status and luxury that you found yourself remembering, it was lazy afternoons in a simple barn, hay sticking to your side, its pricks slightly uncomfortable and completely unable to take away from the satisfaction of arching your hips into his mouth. During that long, lonely period of directionlessness, the first time your resolve broke and you lost your battle with yourself not to wank off to that memory, you knew.

The last pieces of your suits already discarded, he pulls first himself out of your mouth and next you to your nuptial bed. His face turning away from it, he grabs you once more by the back of your head and connects your mouths. He's drunk with the prospect of how you two are about to join your bodies, again and still a first as legal husbands. You can tell his state by how he bites your lower lip, his fingernails grazing down your back, forcing you to shift forward, into him, and you both fall gracelessly onto the bed. He laughs with it and it's the most infectious sound you have ever heard. If you weren't already convinced he's your soulmate, you would have fallen in love with him all anew over this pure sound alone. He laughed at you against the Mill's door too, after you spent yourself in his hand within just a few seconds. You were close to feeling shame, like you were a disappointment, but then he leaned in and whispered into your ear, "You're beautiful." It sent shivers down your spine and your hand tightened on his shoulder as his climax followed yours, his fingers never letting go of their hold around his pulsing dick and your limp one, starting to stir back to life. Looking at him like that, you knew what his words were an abbreviation for. If you had lived five times as long, you would have never been able to forget how gorgeous he is when he comes. But taking the sight of it in after your separation, you were reminded of how deeply you loved him being that breathtaking, undone as he was, were madly in need of it more than any memory could hold. He told you the same was the case for him with just those two words and you were grateful for him. For the way he's always been able to save you, with the smallest gesture or utterance, from thoughts and feelings that had been planted deeply into your mind years earlier.

You plant your knees on either side of him and bend over to lick a trail down his body as you're aiming for his entrance. You move lower and the closer you get, the smaller the stripes you paint over his skin with your tongue. His fingers clutch forcefully at your hair and don't leave too much room for movement, but you carry on, over his abdomen, passing next to his straining, neglected erection and dipping below. When you finally, carefully stab in, you're sure the sound he emits reverberates beyond the walls around you. Not that you care. That first entire week that had been spent together as a couple, clandestine as it had been, you hadn't been living off sugar. You had thrived on the freedom you had acquired to draw any illicit noise from his lips, for hours and hours on end. He groans in that way that tells you he's done waiting and you're expected to get to the point, so you chuckle and climb up to place a gentle kiss right above his hip, before you guide yourself into him and he traps you inside with his legs wrapped around your waist. You start moving slowly, but there is no destination that you're trying to reach. You're far more occupied looking up and into his eyes as his body reminds you both of how naturally you suit each other. Your left hand is splayed over his side, feeling the movements, and you can't help lose yourself in that star-lit blue gaze. Before you're aware what you're about to do, you find yourself whispering to him, "Husband".

Something darkens impossibly in his eyes and he unlocks his legs, flipping you onto your back, causing you to slip out of him. Laid back, your cock is full and heavy, standing at attention as if it's reaching for your chest. He extends two digits at you and the order is clear. Resting your hands above your head, you open your mouth obediently to let him in and suck his fingers with enthusiasm. You know what's coming as he removes his hand and moves it down. You raise your leg to give him more access and gasp when his fingers press against and then past the tight ring of muscles. It's not gentle, and he reads you so well, he knows when that's what you want from him. Like after you made it from the Mill's door to the couch, both of you hard again and too needy for each other to make it up the spiral staircase. He pinned you down and, without even properly getting either one of you out of your clothes, fucked you into the cushions, leaving you no choice but to hold a pillow over your own mouth to muffle your cries. You had him there too, after a bit of banter and some additional snogging, before he dragged you up to the place that used to and would return to be your bedroom. You would eventually come to violate every surface in that room, but the bed was all you needed at that moment in time. And before the night was over, due to sheer exhaustion, he rimmed another orgasm out of you and you shagged him one last time, lasting longer than you ever had as you simply forgot yourself. You were absorbing every expression that you could extract from him, doing away with the void in your heart that would always be empty without him.

Aaron fills you up. Takes over from where you're holding your leg up for him and pushes in. His cock splits you up in two as he enters, to then hold it all together by taking up all the space inside of you. There's a sense of deliriousness to this. When he's within you, it always feels like too much and not enough at the same time, like you must escape the intensity of it, but the only place you could possibly escape to is right then and there and _more_ , you need to have more of him to not break apart. For so many years, you've been a pendulum, swinging wildly in the wind, only ever stopping in mid air to turn and hit hard in the opposite direction. But with him, you've found your peace. He had made you want to feel him penetrating your insides, had made you desire to be with him completely, in every way possible, and when you had let your defenses down and him in, the pendulum's movements had grown gradually smaller until it had finally come to a stop. It had found its center, a rest at last. Achingly simple and yet utterly impossible before him. How could you not crave him? He drives further in until he bottoms out and his mouth is hovering over yours. For a second he doesn't move. Right before his lips graze yours as he breathes "Husband" into you and seals the word in with a kiss.

When he breaks it off, he grabs at your hips and lifts them off the bed a little, angling to set your nerve endings on fire with each of his thrusts. You're going to feel it in the morning, but that's what you want. To be accompanied by the sense of him even when he isn't physically there. And it's not like either of you has been planning on spending too much of this week sightseeing anyway. You fix your eyes on the sight of him. All that beauty and strength and that one word you can still taste on your tongue. It makes you grasp at your cock like a man trying to keep from drowning. Your eyes are locked together. With a guttural grunt and without much real effort, you're spasming. He sinks his fingers into the tender flesh at the back of your thigh and you weakly yelp at that, clenching down around him even more from the uncontainable mixture of pleasure and pain. He spills into you, liquid heat that becomes more distinguishable from his cock as he withdraws from your body and collapses next to you, still heaving. You draw him into your arms, entangle your legs with his as you leave a kiss on his lips. 

"Bastard," you say with no anger whatsoever, "I wanted to come inside you."

He snorts tiredly. "That's no way to speak to your husband."

"To my bastard husband," you insist and love his laughter as much as his following kiss.

"You're not so old that you can't pull another round off soon," he says with cheek. You grin at him and his face smoothes over. His eyes examine you with love, one more occurrence when he seems to be memorizing every detail of your face. "We have the rest of the night for that," he plants a kiss on the side of your face, "the rest of the week," on the tip of your nose, "and the rest of our lives," on your lips, open and inviting you to chase his mouth for more.

It sounds like too much, but it's true. The both of you have always been insatiable for each other, in ways no other human being will fully comprehend. It's easy to believe that sort of passion, burning that hot, will necessarily diminish now. It does for so many couples as their intimacy fades into routine. And the two of you have shagged each other so many times, you've had each other in every imaginable and inventive way alike, that it should have all blended together into one long, vague memory with no distinction between different caresses and dates. But it hasn't happened and you're confident it never will. Every time you have sex, every touch you share, it's a note in the concert you're dedicating your lives to composing together, and each note is perpetually new, singular, repeated and undeniably eternal. Just like your union, just like your love.


End file.
